


The Hands that Heal

by Eida



Category: When Women Were Warriors Series - Catherine M. Wilson
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 10:26:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12982080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eida/pseuds/Eida
Summary: A thought came to me then—not in words, precisely, but in a surge of emotion—that although I was surrounded by warriors, I was going to die alone.Maara, grievously wounded in battle with cattle raiders, is returned to Merin's household at death's door.The companion she never wanted brings her back into life.(A retelling of part of Chapter 3 ofA Warrior's Path, from Maara's POV.)





	The Hands that Heal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [13lackbirds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/13lackbirds/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, 13lackbirds! I hope you enjoy this fic.
> 
> (Some dialogue taken directly from _A Warrior's Path_.)

Even the best of warriors makes errors, especially when weary and facing two opponents—and I would not flatter myself by calling myself the best of warriors.

I moved to intercept one blade, and was too slow to stop a strike from my second opponent.

I felt the other warrior's blade in my gut, and I fell.

Hot blood, cold mud, rain spattering all around me, the clang of swords and the cries of warriors and the rushing of my blood in my ears—

I waited for the final, finishing blow, but none came. In my agony, I couldn't tell whether the warrior who'd struck me down thought me as good as dead, or if she'd simply been distracted—if the two who'd been fighting me perhaps now ran to the aid of one of their fellow-warriors.

It was all I could do to press one hand against my wound. Darkness rose before my eyes, and I did not expect to ever emerge back into the light.

A thought came to me then—not in words, precisely, but in a surge of emotion—that although I was surrounded by warriors, I was going to die alone.

▫▪▫

Darkness. Pain. Heat.

Mother, help me.

Mother, where are you?

Hands. A cloth, wiping sweat from my brow; a cup held to my mouth.

I drank.

The pain receded, and I fell back into a deeper, calmer darkness.

▫▪▫

The warrior who had wounded me stood before me once again—only it seemed to me, at times, that she looked more like Vintel.

I moved as if through mud—slow, ponderous. I watched as the warrior's blade dove at my stomach—just as slow as I was.

I tried to force my limbs to move, to block it, but my limbs were sluggish. I moved, but not fast enough; all I could do was watch the raider's blade creep ever-closer, slow and inexorable, inevitable as death itself.

I felt it touch my skin—

I watched the warrior's blade dive at my stomach, slowly, slowly. I tried to twist away, but I could barely move at all.

I felt the sword pierce me—

I watched the warrior's blade approach. I tried to step backwards, but my body wouldn't obey me.

I felt the blade against my stomach—

A thousand times, the warrior struck me; a thousand times, I tried to avoid the blow, and failed.

A thousand times, I saw my death approach—a cycle endlessly repeating.

Was this death, then? Not to rest in the earth's quiet embrace, but to relive the very moment of one's death again and again, for all eternity?

I watched the warrior's blade approach. There was nothing I could do—

I heard a voice in the distance, drawing me up, drawing me back out of the nightmare.

I hovered between sleep and waking. I think I tried to speak, but only murmured something incomprehensible.

The voice went on, soft and distant, but still there—the world of the living, still near, even if I didn't yet have the strength to pull myself into it fully.

Sighing, I slipped back into a quieter, darker slumber.

▫▪▫

I drifted for a long time between the realms of sleep and waking. Sometimes it felt as if my spirit began to drift from my body—but always, the voice called it back, back home, back to pain and heaviness and darkness—back to life and possibility.

At last, it felt as if something shifted—some constant, dizzying heat lifted—and my dreams quieted, my sleep grew deeper, I finally felt as if I could rest, and my spirit made no move to stray.

After some time, I woke. Lying beside me was a young woman, fast asleep.

Tamras. The companion I'd been given; the companion I didn't want. The Lady's spy, and, perhaps, the method by which the Lady meant to bind me here.

I didn't welcome the thought of being bound here, to the warriors who'd proven that they didn't see me as one of their own. I was an outsider here, and I knew it.

I'd imagined that, surely, this Tamras must resent being bound to me, as well. She was the daughter of one of the Lady's dear friends. Tamras had the Lady's eye on her; surely her future was bright. She must want to be apprenticed to a warrior with powerful family ties, for the sake of her mother's household. I had none. I was alone, as I'd always been.

And yet... had Tamras been the one I'd sometimes sensed through my delirium, tending to me in my weakness?

Had she been the one to draw me back from death's gateway?

If she'd resented being bound to me as companion—if she'd resented me, and my presence in the household, and what the Lady had asked of her—would she be here now, lying beside me, able to know in an instant if I were to begin thrashing or calling out in my sleep?

I didn't understand why. I'd certainly done nothing to warrant such devotion. I'd done my best to discourage it, in fact. I wanted no attachments holding me here, keeping me from walking away when I felt it was time.

But now I had a bond of obligation. I owed Tamras my life.

And though I wasn't sorry that I lived, the thought was uncomfortable.

I knew I had not treated her kindly, and she'd repaid my cold indifference with tireless care. How many nights had I lain helpless, bound to the living world only by her voice and the medicine she brought me?

Her eyes opened.

She reached out to me—and I moved away. I didn't want her to touch me. I could hardly bear to look at her after having had my callousness repaid with such kindness.

A moment passed.

And I heard her begin to cry.

Guilt rose in my chest, clutching at my heart.

I forced myself to look back at her, forced myself to speak, to say the only thing I could.

“Sorry,” I whispered, and closed my eyes.

▫▪▫

I said little else to her over the next few days. I wasn't certain what to say.

_Why have you done all of this? Why do you still do it?_

She slept in my room, still, though not in my bed; she had her own bedding she brought in. She continued with her work of healing me—bringing me food, helping me wash, changing my bandages.

Being so dependent on Tamras was, in some ways, difficult to bear—and yet it couldn't have been easy for her, either.

Always, always, she watched me, attentive to my every need, never complaining.

The first night after I'd woken from my long sleep, I found that, though I felt exhausted, sleep would not come to me. I laid down, eyes shut, trying to drift off... but my mind could find no rest, as if I'd slept so much already that I could sleep no more.

As I shifted in my bed once more, trying to find a comfortable position while being careful of my wound, I heard Tamras speak.

“Let me go get some warm water,” she said, rising. “I'll be back shortly.”

She paused a moment, as if to give me a chance to reply—but I said nothing, and so she turned to hurry off, leaving me to stare up at the ceiling.

She returned some time later with a bucket of water and some cloths.

“If I bathe you, it will probably help you sleep,” said Tamras. “I'd give you a sleeping draught, but...” She sighed. “They're strong enough that I'd worry that you might not wake up. Will you sit over here on this stool?”

I had no choice but to trust her judgement on the matter of the sleeping draught—and I _did_ trust her. How could I not, when her healing talent had brought me back from death's threshold?

Wordlessly, I rose, seating myself on the stool in my chamber. Tamras helped me out of my sleeping shift and gently pressed a warm, wet washcloth against my shoulder.

It felt strange, being tended to like this, but she must have bathed me during my long sleep, as well. It was simply that now I was awake, and fully aware.

Her hands were gentle and sure; the cloth rubbed in circles over my upper back, and I closed my eyes.

The cloth swept up the nape of my neck, and a tingling ran down my spine; warm water dripped from the cloth, trickling down across my shoulder.

I trusted her as a patient must trust her healer, and, gradually, I allowed myself to relax.

When she was finished, and I was dried and dressed again, I laid down once more, and at last sleep took me.

▫▪▫

After a few days had passed, with few words exchanged between us, she asked me “Do you wonder why the healer hasn't come to you?”

I paused a moment. “I think you are my healer,” I replied, which was surely true. It did seem strange to me that Tamras was the only healer who had seen to me, but there was no doubt she had a healer's skill; no one could have brought me back from death's threshold better than she had.

But she replied “No. I'm not a healer. I learned what my mother could teach me. That's all.”

There was surely more to the story; I remained silent, to let her tell it.

Tamras took a deep breath. “The healer believed you would die. She wanted to give you a painless death. I disobeyed her. I wanted you to live.”

I didn't blame the healer for that. I knew well that the wound I had taken was a grievous one; stomach wounds were ugly things, and the death they could bring was slow and painful.

But the healer had been wrong, and Tamras had brought me through my fever.

“Why?” I asked.

Her face reddened, and she looked away. “I was angry with you,” she said. “I wanted to _make_ you live, so that you would have to respect me and so that I would have a claim on you.”

She fell silent, and I studied her.

Angry? Well, she certainly had a right to be. I didn't relish the thought of being indebted to her, but I could see the fairness of it, and I could hardly resent her for saving my life.

“You have what you wanted,” I said. “I owe you a debt, and I will be careful to repay it.”

Tamras inhaled shaprly. “I do not have what I wanted!” she cried, looking back up at me. “I wanted an honorable place here, and I have disgraced myself in my own eyes. You owe me nothing. I want nothing from you.”

 _I want nothing from you._ I didn't understand. She'd gone to such effort to save my life, and now she spoke as if she wanted nothing to do with me?

Our gazes locked, I looked at her, and saw... shame. Guilt. She thought she had wronged me, by saving my life... because, in her own eyes, she'd done so for the wrong reasons.

At last, I broke the silence. “I'm not sure I understand you. Are you telling me you saved my life because you were angry with me?”

She blinked. Something of the absurdity of the situation must have struck her, then, for her mouth quirked as if she were trying to hold back a smile. “Yes. Furious.”

I kept my face neutral. “Furious?” I asked.

“Enraged,” she replied.

“Oh dear,” I said, allowing myself to smile at last, the tension between us finally broken.

In my years, I had seen anger do a great many things. If properly controlled and channeled, of course, it could lend a person strength and resolve... but I had also seen it cause seasoned warriors to make foolish mistakes. I had seen it cause people to come to blows when there was no need. I had seen it cause people to risk their own lives, and those of the people around them, when a different path might have avoided the need.

But...

Who was this Tamras, whose anger could _heal_?

I answered myself: _Someone, perhaps, who I should come to know better._

And I resolved to do so.


End file.
